Sowing Season
by lucymonster
Summary: On loves gained and loves lost, and the blossoming of hope after a long hard winter of grief. Byakuya/Hisana and Byakuya/Renji.


**Notes:** Title and quotes are from the song Sowing Season by Brand New. Proofread by w3djyt.

* * *

_Is it in you now, to watch the things you gave your life to broken? And stoop and build them up with worn-out tools._

The story of their first meeting was far removed from the momentous encounters of famous literary lovers that formed Kuchiki Byakuya's entire understanding of the concept of romance. He was serving, at the time, as lieutenant of the Sixth Division under his grandfather; a routine patrol took him out into Rukongai, and in one of the inner districts he met a serving girl in a small, respectable tea house. For no particular reason save, perhaps, the wily mechanisms of fate, he found himself enchanted by her.

He went back by himself on five separate occasions before he was able to make up his mind to speak to her.

She was polite and friendly; not terribly well-educated, but quick-witted and charming. She discerned at once that he was a man of some status, and their early interactions were marked by her careful humility and sincere but tentative admiration. They made light, courteous conversation over brightly coloured ceramic tea cups, and over time it became his habit to visit the tea shop on his days off to drink and speak with her. Neither of them could have pinpointed the moment that their connection deepened, that their talk turned from trivialities to deep, weighty matters of the heart, to their pasts and their futures, their hopes and fears. It simply _happened_. He learned that she was passionate and fearless, unfettered by the rigid codes of propriety that governed the lives of all within his own circles. By the time he brought her existence to the attention of his family, he was already deeply in love; by the time he announced to a chorus of horrified gasps and splutterings that he intended to _marry_ her, not all the desperate persuasive efforts of his entire family combined were enough to sway his heart one bit.

The sight of her in the bridal kimono made his heart beat so fast that he thought it might actually break. And when they drifted off to sleep on that first night, curled close around each other, they fit together more perfectly than he ever could have dreamed.

* * *

Those early days were giddy, vivid with promise and happiness and hope. The cold, disapproving cruelty of the family to their heir's new bride was a mere shadow flickering at the very corner of the bright open glade where they dwelt, lost in the time-honoured bliss of togetherness. Hisana laughed and smiled, and she bowed to the expectations of her new status with flawless, easy grace, and never complained, and never lost her expression of wide-eyed wonder whenever his arms wrapped around her.

* * *

Pale, slender feet splashed about in the clear water of the stream, kicking up droplets to shower his ankles as he stood by watching her, equal parts bemused and mesmerised by the sheer unpretentious _joy_ she took in the simple beauty of their surroundings.

"Look at that swallow, my lord," she said, bright voice tinkling with pleasure. "It darts around like a dancer."

"I have to wonder what kind of dances you've been watching," said Byakuya drily. The behaviour of the birds held remarkably little interest for him at this moment - his gaze was fixed on Hisana, on the carefree smile and lively glow he had seldom had the chance to see in recent weeks.

It had been her idea to come out here. A simple packed lunch sat in a basket in the shade a short way off, and her kimono was hitched up high enough as she dangled her feet in the water that he'd have been appalled had anyone but himself stumbled upon the scene. Away from the estate, away from the trying routine of studied pleasantries and manufactured graces and the withering disapproval of a family to whom her efforts to fit in would never be sufficient - away from that crushing weight, she flourished, and her smile was so open and sincere it made his heart ache.

"Join me on the bank at least, if you won't bathe your feet," she urged, patting the ground beside her encouragingly. He sank down and made himself comfortable, and caught her hand in his and laced their fingers together with a gentle, affectionate squeeze. Hisana beamed. With a contented sigh, she leaned over to rest her head against his shoulder, and gave a terrific playful kick to the water that sent droplets cascading over the both of them. He flinched, and she giggled, eyes alight with mischief. "See? Isn't the water pleasant, Byakuya-sama?"

"You'll be going for a swim if you keep doing that," he said, wiping the water from his face and smiling in spite of himself. "Make no mistake, I _will_ toss you in if I have to."

"My lord would never be so unkind!" She nestled closer, apparently undeterred by the threat.

It was a rare, precious sight, to see Hisana so happy. She was a resilient woman, and she strove always to keep a brave face around him, but life at the estate had been unkind to her. It pained him to watch her energy and zest for life locked away behind the meek and proper manner she strove to cultivate for his sake and his family's. He would just as soon have seen her as she used to be, running through muddy streets barefoot and shameless in her eagerness simply to taste the rain. The wildness in herself that she strove to tame sat ill within its new confines. And yet, stifled under heavy silks and proper wifely submission, she was still beautiful; and the loving words she murmured to him in private moments were still heartfelt, still adoring. It gave him faith that things would settle, that they would find a middle ground in which their two disparate backgrounds could sit comfortably side by side.

She alternated, these days, between prim stoicism and heartbreaking openness. Some days she sat in stiff seiza and poured tea with steady, expert hands; other days she curled against him for comfort and whispered through her tears the story of her sister. What courage it had taken her to confess the matter to him, he could scarcely imagine - the crushing guilt and self-blame she felt left no room to imagine for one moment that his own reaction would not be equally condemnatory. Even now, she seemed reluctant to believe that he felt no contempt for her, despite all his earnest assurances to the contrary. His heart spoke to him only of devotion and of duty - duty to her to make her struggles his own, to seek for the girl as urgently as if she was his own blood sister.

Today, though, no such heavy thoughts weighed down his wife's buoyant spirit. There was no stiffness at all in her posture as she relaxed against him, still giggling and chirping away as though she had never known suffering in her life. It was days like this that would burn themselves into his memory, retained forever as the most perfect models of happiness.

* * *

As in all aspects of her life, in the bedroom Hisana was everything she thought she was supposed to be - meek, pliant and undemanding. She blushed and averted her eyes and waited coyly for him to take command of the situation.

It vexed him more than he knew how to say.

She misunderstood all the things that drew him to her, he felt; misunderstood his affections as belonging, not to the passionate, free-spirited woman that she was, but to the demure, well-bred lady that his family expected her to emulate. Perfect submission did not suit Hisana: it dampened the light of desire that burned behind her eyes, set her hands shaking with the fear that, even now, she would fall short of his expectations. They continued to shake as she disrobed before him now, shedding layers of silk with a ritual precision he could only imagine she'd copied straight from a book; the blush on her cheeks came not from shame at her exposure, but from frustration with her own restraint and anxiety lest her carefully-practiced movements falter.

He stilled her hands as they moved to untie her under-robe. "Hisana, what is the matter?" he asked, as gently as he could.

"All is well, Byakuya-sama." Her hands slipped deftly out from under his, resuming their former task with characteristic stubbornness she didn't even seem to notice. "Does my lord wish me to-"

"Hisana."

She looked up at him, violet eyes quivering ever so slightly. "There is nothing, Byakuya-sama," she said, and that was a code he could read all too well - a code that said she had spoken with one of the family today, and poisonous words had been exchanged through lips pulled back in polite, seemly smiles, and in her humiliation she could not bear even to _talk_ to him about it. And so he watched, wistful, as she resolutely slid the last layer of fabric from her shoulders and stepped towards him, eyes downcast. Her touch as she began working on the ties of his own garments was delicate and almost dutiful, and the shudder of heat that coursed through his body didn't quite reach his heart.

When he lowered her down towards the bed, he could feel the tension in her slender frame. Her hands skimmed up and down his back indecisively, coming to rest upon his shoulders - wanting contact, he knew, but afraid of seeming too eager. He had heard the whispers, toxic nameless voices when they thought they were out of his earshot. She was not virtuous, they said. Not pure. Wanton, selfish, shameless. He wondered how many of those whispers echoed now in her head as she squirmed almost imperceptibly against the bedsheets. She had confessed to him, once, that she was afraid he would come to agree with those whispers. That she feared her passions marked her as unworthy. "It's so selfish, Byakuya-sama," she had said, "but sometimes I...sometimes I cannot help but think of your touch. And then I want...but is it not disgraceful, to _want _so?"

He had not yet found an answer. Perhaps it was disgraceful - after all, how much disgrace had he brought upon his family, simply by following through on what he wanted? He could never bring himself to regret it; but perhaps Hisana didn't know that. Disgrace tied them together, bound their hearts more firmly than any wedding vow. Both of them wanted things that they should not; both of them found refuge in that forbidden want that mirrored itself in the eyes of the other.

Hisana was strong, but her willpower never outlasted the passion that burned in her veins.

The softest of sounds escaped her lips as his hand slid down between her thighs, breath hot against his ear. The heat within him sparking in earnest, he lowered his lips to her skin, trailing kisses along her jaw, her neck, her chest, her stomach. She whimpered quietly, hands fisting in the sheets, legs parting willingly as he dipped his head lower to taste her. Her body betrayed the arousal she tried to conceal behind her veil of propriety, and she arched up against the soft, tentative flicks of his tongue.

A devoted husband, he had long since learned her body; learned now to bring her apart, to send her to the edge of sanity. Gentle, teasing touches gradually coaxed a stronger reaction from her until she was writhing, moaning beneath him, manners and pretensions and insecurities tumbling to the ground until her hands were anchored none too gently in his hair in a wordless plea for more. Swept away by heat, lost and tangled together, they moved; and her nails dug into his back and her teeth sunk into his shoulder and the whole world ceased to exist, as it always did when they were together. She came apart, and he lost his mind, and when he collapsed against her she held him and combed her fingers through his hair and murmured faint words of satisfaction up to the ceiling.

* * *

Time rolled on, and Hisana never fell pregnant.

In the privacy of his own mind, Byakuya considered it a blessing. He had never been a great lover of children, and he had no reason to suppose that he'd like his own any better than he liked other people's. He recognised that it was his duty to carry on the family line, but he had never had any real enthusiasm for the idea; and so, although he felt shamed by his own irresponsibility, he could not bring himself to be overly disappointed that his marriage, so far, was producing no offspring.

Unfortunately, his own peace of mind on the situation had little bearing on the sentiments of his family. As time continued to pass and still no children eventuated, the whispers that had followed their union since the beginning now grew louder and more poisonous. Hisana, bearing the brunt of their vitriol despite Byakuya's best efforts to shield her, grew more and more agitated, and the tests they undertook to ease her mind only confirmed her fears: she was barren.

"Do you even _want_ children?" he asked, stroking her hair as she sobbed desperately into her pillow. He couldn't make out her reply, muffled as it was by her large mouthful of fabric, but he thought he could discern a few keywords - _duty_ and _womanhood_ and _expectations _and the like. "Truly, this doesn't change anything. I am not concerned."

She looked up at him then, through red puffy eyes that widened in disbelief. "Byakuya-sama, it's - _hic_ - forgive me...our duty...the family-"

"Inconsequential," he said, tone laced with all the certainty and authority that his military training had taught him, although his heart trembled to see his wife so devastated. "Do not worry about the family - I shall tell them the failing is mine."

"But they - _hic_ - won't just accept-"

"I shall insist." He cupped her face in his hand, brushing a gentle thumb over her tear-stained cheek. "Listen, Hisana. When we find your sister - and we will, I swear it - when we find her, I will name her heir without hesitation. Duty demands no more from us. We have no need for a child of our own."

She didn't _quite_ stop crying, but her hand came up to fold tentatively over his.

* * *

Winter came, and she fell sick. Soft breaths turned to harsh coughs that wracked her delicate frame; her hands were icy cold despite the thick layers of clothing and blankets that swathed her. No family connections were left unexploited to ensure she had the very best treatment. Byakuya sat by her bedside for hours on end, conversing quietly when she was awake, holding her hand while she slept. The healers spoke promising words of new treatments and minor improvements; but Byakuya had only to look at her cheeks to see how the colour drained from them day by day.

* * *

_She was fading._

* * *

Hisana passed away on a cool, crisp spring morning. There was no closure, no resolution, no sense of acceptance. She merely _left_, like petals scattering on the breeze, and Byakuya's heart froze over with the bitterest winter frost.

He wasn't sure how many people attended her funeral. He drifted through the service in a bubble of impenetrable isolation, unable to process the presence of family and friends - unable to think, or feel, or breathe. He didn't know who offered their condolences, who wept when the fire was lit or who didn't; none of it mattered. He was cold and numb and utterly, unbearably alone.

Weeks passed.

Months passed.

He kept the bed made for two. He lay awake every night, paralysed by the force of his grief, staring up at the ceiling with blank, dry eyes.

His grandfather's long-impending retirement was what finally snapped him out of his stasis. The family needed a leader; the Sixth Division needed a captain. He donned the haori and the kenseikan with no sense of pride, but with grim, unwavering resignation. He buried himself in his work - hoping, always, that with enough mindless dedication he could erase himself, could disappear from the colourless chaotic haze that was his consciousness.

On some days, he almost thought he was succeeding.

* * *

_Do you miss the blend of colours she left in your black and white field? And do you feel condemned just being there? _

The story of their first meeting was a mere tangent to the tale of a far more significant encounter.

He had found the girl, and for a brief moment he truly believed would waver and flee, and so abandon his promise to Hisana. Bright violet eyes and a pretty heart-shaped face stared curiously up at him through frayed locks of unruly black hair, and he hated her so much that he would gladly have died if only he could take her with him. How she dared to stand there, so bold and unapologetic, wearing a face that did not, _could not_ belong to her - no vow in the world, no sense of personal honour could ever be enough to carry him through this encounter. He forced himself through it anyway, heart aching so strongly he thought his whole body would break.

He barely even noticed the boy - wide-eyed and trembling in the doorway, crimson-haired and tattooed, feeble reiatsu flaring in a pitiful attempt at a challenge as Byakuya brushed past him without bothering to look. He acknowledged him only with a reciprocal flare of spiritual force, just a little, just enough that he could hear the boy's knees creak and rattle in a desperate attempt to stay upright, and then he left and thought no more of it.

Rukia accepted the offer, moved into the estate, and she called him brother and bowed and stammered when they spoke, and his irrational hatred softened and trickled away. She was frightened and vulnerable, barely keeping afloat in the dangerous currents of the aggressively conservative world to which he had introduced her. She was his sister, now, and it was his duty to care for her and protect her. Looking at her proved so painful that he very quickly gave it up, but he did his best to make her welcome in other, less agonising ways. He learned her food preferences and ensured that every meal offered dishes she would enjoy. He had her stationed in the Thirteenth Division, where Ukitake and his subordinates would treat her with all the warmth that Byakuya could not offer. He found her a maidservant of about her own age, bubbly and talkative and irrepressibly friendly, to keep her company in the quiet, solemn halls of the manor. Sometimes he overheard them speaking of Rukia's days at the academy, of her friends and petty enemies, and in particular of a boy called Renji, who had grown up with her in Rukongai and whom she had considered as important as family.

She didn't try to go to him now, and it was just as well. She understood, like he did, like her old friends did, that she belonged in a different sphere now - one that did not accept common-born boys from the streets of Rukongai as suitable company for her to keep.

* * *

He recognised the boy the instant he was brought forward as a candidate for the Sixth Division's empty lieutenant position. He was impossible to miss - striking red hair, dark tattoos more extensive than they had been on that first incidental encounter. Abarai Renji was taller, stronger, older; a fighter now, and one with credentials that made him perfect for the position. Byakuya thought very little of the second meeting, unexpected though it was - why shouldn't the boy have climbed through the ranks, after all? Thinking of little more than convenience, he accepted the proposed promotion, and next thing he knew Renji was moving in to the office next door to his.

He didn't think much of it when he caught the lieutenant gazing at him, amber eyes burning with...something. Resentment. Envy. Admiration. _Life_. How quaint. Come to think of it, Byakuya supposed that the boy must still harbour a grudge against him for bearing Rukia away from the academy. Indifferent, he maintained a cool civility between himself and his new subordinate, and let Renji go about his duties untroubled, and protected him as much as a captain ought to protect an underling, and didn't really bother with him unless he needed scolding or instructing.

He paid no attention to Renji's struggle for acknowledgement. Disregarded every strange, angry, venomous, _yearning_ look that the lieutenant directed at him.

Life dragged slowly along, grey and empty and unyielding.

* * *

Nothing changed until he was propped up in bed in the Fourth Division, weak and injured and horribly, unforgivably mistaken but _here, still here_. And Renji remained too, and he sat by the bed and whittled away at a lump of wood and watched Byakuya through eyes that were anxious and searching and far too perceptive.

"Taichou," he said one evening, when his little piece of wood was whittled down to almost nothing, "when you're recovered...I mean, if it's not too much to...d'you think you could...help me train?"

Byakuya looked up from his nutritious but unappetising hospital dinner to meet Renji's gaze. "Train with you? Bankai, you mean?"

"If...if that's ok," said Renji, voice growing a little stronger. "I mean, I've got the thing now, but like you said, I don't really have a clue how to use it."

"Like I said..." Byakuya averted his eyes, unwilling to revisit that particular memory at the moment. "Very well," he said after a short pause. He saw no reason to deny the request. He had been wrong, after all - so very, very wrong - and Renji had borne no small share of the consequences of his mistakes. Perhaps, by helping him in this, he could atone; could express his gratitude that Renji had stood by Rukia when he, her own brother, had turned his back on her.

Renji's answering grin was nothing short of elated.

* * *

They trained long and hard, as often as could be arranged. Renji's progress moved in leaps and bounds, and Byakuya began to feel a small swell of pride whenever he witnessed the lieutenant flawlessly executing one of his hard-won techniques. Long hours of toil and sweat and and blood insinuated themselves into his daily routine, punctuated by flashes of wild crimson hair and a grin that was almost feral and those brief, fleeting moments when their eyes met and a strange shiver of something like _life _crawled its way up Byakuya's spine. He could feel the frost over his heart melting, trickling downwards in small rivulets, and as he thawed a strange panic settled into the pit of his stomach.

After decades of unrelenting cold, he thought the warmth might burn him to ash.

It wasn't much, to begin with. Sometimes they walked together, in the evenings after all the day's work was done, enjoying the quiet and the fresh air and the company. Renji liked to talk a lot on these occasions; Byakuya had little to offer in return, but he minded the one-sided chatter far less than he pretended to. He would listen patiently to the stories of the academy and of Rukongai, of old friends and youthful adventures, and Renji never stopped to demand reciprocal input or enquire about his own past.

Until one day he did.

"Have you ever been to Inuzuri, Taichou?" he asked, leaning against the bough of a tree where they had stopped to admire the bubbling brook that trickled its way across their path, and catching Byakuya so off-guard that it took him several moments to register that he was expected to reply.

"An odd question," he said, and Renji's head instantly ducked in embarrassment. "Why do you ask?"

"Just curious, I guess." The lieutenant's feet scuffed the ground awkwardly where he stood. "I mean, there's been at least two people you care about who come from there, right? Ever been to, you know, check it out?"

Byakuya hesitated, habitual reluctance to broach personal matters warring with his strange comfort in the present situation. "Many times," he said at length. "I often went there to search for Rukia."

"Ah, right." Inexplicably, a dark flush was colouring Renji's cheeks; a little cloud of dust billowed up around his ankles and he continued to scuff at the dirt. The silenced stretched on until Byakuya thought Renji was finished talking for the evening; just as he was about to suggest that they start walking again, the redhead continued. "What did you think of it?"

Another short pause, as Byakuya weighed up the question. Unable to make anything of it, he answered in perfect frankness. "I thought it was hell."

A strange, awkward sound sputtered from Renji's mouth. It might have been a growl...or a laugh. He gave no further response, though, and the walk back to the division was uncommonly silent.

* * *

He could have written a whole _book_ of reasons why falling for his lieutenant was the worst idea he'd ever had.

And he could have read that book every night, over and over, until he memorised every last word. It would have made no difference. Because it was happening, without his consent or cooperation - a slow, steady trickle of long-forgotten emotions that crept up on him so gradually that he barely even noticed them. Blissfully oblivious, he sailed through months of long training sessions and uncomfortably earnest conversations and strange, intense eye-contact with barely a twinge of concern. And then that evening came where a firm hand caught his in a fleeting, careless gesture, and amber eyes stared wistfully at him before breaking away and leaving him alone on the training field with a racing pulse and the horrible, dawning realisation that he had managed to fall head over heels for Abarai Renji.

* * *

That night, he dreamt about Hisana.

They sat across from each other in the room overlooking the old cherry tree, tendrils of steam curling up through the air between them as they sipped their tea in silence. The beverage had been poorly prepared, and tasted burnt and bitter on his tongue. Hisana's eyes were dull and lifeless, and she watched him through a fringe of hair that looked like it hadn't been combed in weeks.

"I must apologise for the state you find me in, Byakuya-sama," she said at length, in a voice as thin and hoarse as if it hadn't been used for years. "I ought at least to have changed out of my sleeping gown."

"You are still unwell," he said, staring down into his cup and watching the sediment at the bottom move in slow swirls and eddies. "Think nothing of it."

Hisana gave a sad little sigh, and shook her head. "I am always ill, these days."

"But it is not your fault." Outside, birds twittered from their perches on the budding cherry tree - spring was approaching, it seemed. Their chirps were all that broke the heavy silence that descended over the room like a thick fog.

It was Hisana who broke it, once again. "My lord, this is no life for you," she said sadly, and he looked up at her to meet violet eyes damp with tears.

"Then what would you have me do?" he demanded, and Hisana's face hardened at the tremor in his voice. When she spoke, though, her own voice was as gentle as ever, and she stared meekly down into her lap.

"I would not presume to give you orders," she said. "What right, my lord, has a poor dead woman to hold such sway over the living?"

"Hisana-"

"Forgive me, Byakuya-sama." She looked up again, and her eyes were shining now, as bright and lively as they had ever been in life. And he knew, with devastating clarity, that she was going to leave, without looking back, without saying goodbye.

His eyes flew open to an empty bed in an empty room where sheets clung to his sweat-streaked skin and thick shadows danced across the walls.

* * *

It was very easy, once he closed his eyes, to perfect the balance of selfish ardour and chilly indifference that would allow him to slip past his own defences and convince himself that nothing was changing. Renji was, as ever, obedient and eager to please. He moaned and swore and begged and devoured, he allowed himself to be pushed to the ground and pinned down and exposed and _used_, and he never withheld and he never withdrew and he never, ever asked for more than what Byakuya freely offered. The captain wore his mask of apathy with newfound zeal - he could not slip, not even for a moment - and for a time, nothing was different and nothing felt outside of his control. Everything was quiet, and the bitter ache in his heart faded to a dull thrum.

Occasionally, when the haze of spent passion clouded his better judgement, he would find himself slumped against Renji's chest, and the lieutenant's hands would trace soothing patterns across the skin of his back. But they did not talk about such incidents, and the morning after was always marked by renewed formality and cold, deliberate detachment.

He pretended not to see the sadness that came over Renji's face when this happened. He convinced himself that the pain was necessary.

* * *

The unspoken rule - _leave once you've cleaned up and caught your breath_ - had been well and truly broken.

Byakuya had awoken in the middle of the night, without any clear idea why, and his sleep-saturated mind had taken several moments to figure out why he was so much warmer than usual. Renji was fast asleep in his bed, sprawled inelegantly with the sheets tangled around him, pressed up against Byakuya's side with a casual intimacy that nearly made the captain's heart stop once he registered what was going on. He sat bolt upright and fixed the lieutenant with a scalding glare, but Renji didn't wake; he merely shuffled around and looped a clumsy arm over Byakuya's lap, nestling into the side of his hip with a small, contented noise deep in his throat.

Appalled, Byakuya shifted further across the bed and attempted to dislodge the arm draped over him; it merely slipped down a little, curling possessively around his thigh, and Renji wriggled closer again to close the new gap between them. Brows knitting, Byakuya made to rise from the bed - the nearness was making him dizzy and faintly sick - but a strange whimpering sound drew his attention back to Renji, who tightened his grip on his leg and mumbled something incomprehensible.

"What?" he asked, shooting a stern glance down at the sleeping lieutenant.

The answer was slow, and slurred, but just barely discernable. "Don't leave...won't get...in the way...Byakuya..."

He needed space. The bed was stiflingly warm; the air was stuffy and oppressive, and smelled of sex and sleep and Renji. The lieutenant had never called him by his first name - had never dared - and Byakuya seriously toyed with the idea of shaking him awake and throwing him out. But there was something almost plaintive in the way those strong fingers dug into the flesh of his inner thigh, and without knowing why, he felt strangely reluctant to disturb the sleeping man. Gritting his teeth, he lay back down onto his pillow; Renji gave a happy, purring sigh and seemed to settle down again, although he didn't release his grip.

Sleep was a surprisingly short time coming.

The second time he woke, Renji woke with him, and leapt up so fast that he took most of the bedsheets with him. "Crap, I'm sorry, Taichou," he groaned, scrambling for the scattered items of his uniform, self-conscious in the unforgiving light of the early dawn. "Must've fallen asleep...I'll get right out of your hair...crap, where'd my hakama get to?"

Byakuya winced at the flurry of noise and activity, overwhelming in the thick, sleepy quiet of the bedroom. "That is enough," he said, trying not to snap; Renji began shaking the sheets vigorously, as though expecting the rest of his uniform to fall out of them. "Your hakama are right over there." He nodded towards the glaringly obvious pile of fabric in the very middle of the floor.

Renji snatched up the garment hastily, cheeks flushing crimson. "Right, sorry," he mumbled. "Didn't see 'em there."

"Clearly." Byakuya pinched the bridge of his nose against the headache he could already feel coming on. "Stop rushing about. You might as well have breakfast here."

Renji froze, balanced precariously on one leg as he stepped into his hakama. "Breakfast, here? With _you_? I mean...are you sure?" His blush was spreading, creeping its way down his neck.

"If it will stop you making such a commotion," Byakuya answered with a soft sigh, rising from the futon and reaching for his own clothing. Renji's eyes were wide as he nodded eagerly, and they finished dressing themselves in silence; Byakuya kept his back turned, but the feeling of Renji's eyes boring into him was strong enough to make his stomach churn.

Breakfast was plain and simple, and Renji's gaze was unnervingly bright, and the meal passed in a thick and welcome silence.

* * *

After that, Renji took to staying most nights when he came over.

It took time, but eventually Byakuya grew used to his presence, and the warmth no longer choked him and the closeness no longer made him sick. They wore themselves out in blissful, heady passion and fell asleep with their bodies still entwined together.

And slowly, slowly, Byakuya began to _hope_.

* * *

He didn't ask Renji to visit her grave with him - but then, he didn't ask him _not_ to, either. Byakuya stood before the small stone monument and wordlessly paid his respects, and Renji hung back, head bowed, eyes lowered. When they turned to leave, a hand snaked out and wrapped tenderly around his. For once, Byakuya chose not to shake it off.

"Reckon she'd have liked me?" Renji asked, his voice gentle and almost apologetic. Byakuya had to suppress an undignified snort.

"She would have found you insufferable," he said, blunt, but not angry or cruel.

Renji chuckled at this. "What, just because I'm sleeping with her husband?"

Byakuya glanced sideways at the redhead, then shook his head. "I thought it had been too long since you last said something vulgar," he said with a small, impatient sigh. Renji only grinned wider, unabashed, but he said nothing and let the subject drop.

The graveyard faded into the dusk as they walked away, and Byakuya did not look back.


End file.
